


The Fine Art of Marriage

by palavreado



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Can be interpreted as slash or friendship, Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-27
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavreado/pseuds/palavreado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's not how it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this needs a few preemptive explanations, such as the fact that this fic was inspired by a headcanon on goodomensheadcanons on tumblr. I myself submitted said headcanon, and promised I wouldn't write a fic. Therefore, I predictably wrote one not even a day later.  
> Second, the japanese restaurant kind of exists, because it's an actual restaurant I googled, but kind of doesn't because I'm not sure it's really all that special and it's 11AM, why am I ever writing fanfiction at 11AM?  
> Thirdly, I regret nothing.
> 
> Enjoy.

The door to the bookshop (marked “closed”, mind you) swung open as a very cheery demon bustled in, carrying a large bouquet of flowers of every colour. He propped down on the counter and waited for the angel to arrive, as he knew he would.

And the angel did arrive, not looking surprised at all by the flowers and the seemingly-genuine smile, “Hello, Crowley,” he chimed.

“Angel! Guess what day it is, today,” he leaned in closer to the counter and grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know. Thursday?”

“No... Well, yes, that too. What else?”

“Well, it’s almost Spring. Never knew you were the type to celebrate that, though.”

“Hm... anything else?”

“Oh my, are those lilies? They’re lovely!”

Crowley was beginning to feel just a bit disappointed, “Oh, come on, angel, do you honestly have to do this every year?”

“Yes! It’s no fun if both parties remember!”

“But you did remember. You always remember everything.”

 “Oh, alright,” he took the multicoloured lilies and set them in a vase he had stored just for the occasion, “Happy Anniversary, dear.”

“Finally! So where are we going? Ritz? Pub? Anything’s fine since you’re paying.”

“As per usual. But I decided to go all out, this time, you know? So today we are going to Matsuri. I made reservations just yesterday and they have a table for two just by the window.”

At this, Crowley frowned. He knew the Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten because one simply does not miracle oneself reservations to Matsuri. He had actually gone through the trouble of calling up for the reservations. That had been incredibly considerate of him.

Oh, the absolute _bastard_.

Exactly twenty-six years ago, Crowley and Aziraphale had done something incredibly stupid while in Las Vegas.

Well, they had done two incredibly stupid things, one of them being even going to Vegas in the first place.

The other one had been getting so heroically wasted that both of them thought an impromptu marriage would be a brilliant and hilarious idea.

None of them ever had time to file a divorce, so when two years later Crowley showed up at the bookshop with a rather large bouquet of flowers, and chocolate, exclusively out of spite and a misguided attempt at irony, Aziraphale had held his ground and paid in full for both their dinners.

The one-time event soon became a yearly ritual, and as rituals go, this one developed into some sort of terrible passive-agressive competition. In fact, it was rather like a game of gay chicken, only instead of invading one’s personal space, you gave them gifts that were better than the ones you received in a vicious cycle.

Though, to be fair, it was quite amusing if you were a member of either Heaven or Hell and were making bets on who could outmatch the other. Even more amusing was the fact that the majority of Hell placed their bets on Aziraphale.

So did the majority of Heaven, to be honest.

Oblivious to the ungodly (pun not intended) amount of time the narrator has spent clearing up loose ends, Crowley was driving back to his flat thinking of a way to top whatever Aziraphale had in store of him.

And then it hit him like a ton of bricks (but not a literal ton of bricks. Crowley hadn’t gotten one of _those_ since the commendations started flooding due to him taking credit for the Inquisition). He picked up his small, slick, and app-ridden portable phone and called his spouse. Then, he stopped by Whole Foods before putting the pedal to the metal and driving back home in a blur of class and Bentley.

Aziraphale might have won the dinner round, but lunch was on him.

\--

Hours in the future, but not many, later, Aziraphale knocked on the door of a rather stylish flat in Mayfair. He was wearing the pink rubber band they’d used as a replacement for not finding an actual wedding ring on his ring finger. He’d kept it safely in the back room especially for the occasion every year. Why he’d kept it during the years when the competition hadn’t started yet was beyond him. Sentimentality, maybe, but probably not.

His vaguely denial-esque thoughts were quickly interrupted when he smelled... no, it couldn’t be. Crowley couldn’t possibly have...

“Ah! Punctual as usual, Aziraphale. Have a seat,” Crowley grinned for ear to ear as he motioned for him to come in. He too was wearing a rubber band, though his was an unattractive shade of purple, and was putting plates on a table that Aziraphale was sure he’d never seen in his life (existence, if you will).

Aziraphale was no longer able to deny that what he smelled was homecooked food. He stood in a daze as Crowley directed him to a chair. He then rolled down his sleeves and sat in front of him, still grinning like a fox, or a snake with rather flexible face muscles.

The lasagne was even a bit burnt on the sides and Crowley had actually made cheesecake for dessert, along with an assortment of apple-based sweets.

Oh, the absolute _bastard_.

\--

Later on, they’d ended up back in Aziraphale’s shop, where the angel presented Crowley with a rare-edition wine and one of those “new-fangled empeethree players” so he “wouldn’t have to listen to his car’s selection” unless absolutely necessary.

The fact that the gesture had been so nauseatingly sweet even though Crowley’s phone already played music and he just knew Aziraphale was going for one of those “it’s the thought that counts” presents made Crowley grit his teeth.

This was greatly aggravated when he noticed Aziraphale had framed (actually _framed_ ) the sketchy “official” document that declared that yes, they indeed were married and the name Crowley-Fell was indeed a thing (Crowley remembered vaguely how a very drunk Aziraphale had laughed obnoxiously for hours at the unfortunate surname placement order). The document was now up on the wall in a proud, tacky, gold frame with little hearts decorating it. It wouldn’t have been more disgusting if he’d framed it with uncooked macaroni (which Aziraphale had actually considered before deciding it was overkill).

The next few hours before the scheduled dinner were a blur of stuffed animals (mainly ducks), tartan scarves, sappy photo albums, rare books signed by dead people, fine drinks, and overcomplicated gadgets.  

Each had enough gifts to support over twenty happy anniversaries. They’d done everything short of getting each other their own islands in Dubai. As they finally sat down at the restaurant to eat their sushi, the day came to a close.

They had both agreed on a stalemate; a truce until the next year, and proceeded to get piss-drunk on whatever sake the restaurant had lying around.

Secretly, when they finally got home, each opened their own little notebook and scribbled a neat tally on a page reserved specifically for keeping score.

Both of them had exactly twenty-six tallies. Heaven and Hell sighed in disappointment as yet another year ended in a draw.

**Author's Note:**

> Meh. The end could be a bit better, but I will reiterate that it is 11AM and I have been awake since 6. No idea why, I just have.


End file.
